Raj, Raj, Raj, Raj, Raj, Raj, Raj, Raj, and Raj

It was Sunday and I was deep in that zone where all my best writing gets done; ears closed off to the world, eyes wide, nose flared with excitement as I hammered my fingers at the keyboard. The only discomfort was a slight rawness between my thighs caused by the friction of my constant swaying as I typed. Chapter 11 of my autobiography was turning out to be the most challenging yet; detailing, as it does, the struggles we faced establishing ‘This Morning’ as the UK’s premium show for bored housewives, melancholic students and the mentally impaired. My work frenzy was all the more intense because Judy had promised to stay away for most of the day. She was overseeing the installation of new baize at her Snooker and Pool Association’s clubhouse. I wanted to make the most of the time by taking my 30,000 words up to the wonderful milestone of 40,000. AKA: the Half Way Point.

After a couple of hours of typing, I finally sank back in my chair and stared at the latest paragraph of memoir. There on the page sat the following fifty three gloriously flowing words, hewn from the tree of memory, rich with the scent of happier days and the knowledge that my children and my children’s children would one day read these words and perhaps pay me tribute in the form of a tear or two.

"We were living in rented accommodation out on the Wirral while all this was happening. We were settling down to married life, coping with each other’s peculiarities. Judy had a terrible habit of leaving the toilet seat up. She, in turn, accused me of leaving my spare toupees soaking in the kitchen sink."

I was about to put fingers to keyboard and produce more of the same when the phone rang. I would have ignored it but for the recognisable tune I have it programmed to play whenever a call comes in from Stephen Fry. Since Stephen has come back from America, he’s also come back into my life and I always feel immensely comforted by that thought.

‘Heads up, Richard,’ said Stephen. ‘’Tis I, Fry, with troubling news involving the misappliance of science.’

‘You’re interrupting the writing of an autobiography that’s sure to establish my name in the world of literature,’ I said, not wanting to sound rude but irritated nonetheless. ‘It better be trouble. What is it this time? I’ve warned you about smoking your pipe in bed? Set fire to your cape again, haven't you?’

‘Nothing so minor,’ he answered. ‘I fear, Dick, that you are about to be overrun by a most virulent pest.’

‘Not mice again!’ I cried. ‘The last time I had mice, I got into the most awful trouble with my blog’s readers when I confessed to giving the mice mind-altering drugs and then sticking them down the garbage disposal.’

‘Were I a man with better news I might indeed utter the word “mice”,’ said Stephen. ‘However, ’tis I, Fry, uttering the phrase: “cloned versions of that famous TV psychiatrist, Professor Raj Persaud”.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You are about to overrun by many cloned Dr. Rajs, if that is indeed the correct plural.’

‘Is there no end to this madness?’ I sobbed. ‘How much more of this tired joke do I have to take? You do realise that he’s launched his own blog in which he is basically copying all my best material.’

‘Perhaps he’s making a point about intertextuality within a postmodern culture,’ suggested Stephen.

‘Are you sure he’s that bright?’

‘Oh, I’m quite sure of it. Were you a more gifted writer, Dick, you too could play postmodern games with the notion of fame and the integrity of the first person narrative.’

‘I think he’s gone bonkers,’ I said, though quietly quite pleased to hear Stephen on such good form. Now do you see what I mean about it being good to have him back? It’s just quality advice at a level far higher than anything you get from the likes of Bill Oddie or that man Clarkson.

‘I can only pass on what I’ve heard,’ carried on Stephen and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I have it from friends in high places that there has been a sudden increase in the number of people claiming to be Dr. Raj Persaud. Bandwagons are being jumped, Dick. Bandwagons are being jumped. Mercy me!’

‘But why would people do such a thing?’

‘Why indeed except to create what we computer experts call “a denial of service attack” on your blog. I will write about it on a future “Dork Talk” but a précis of that piece would be the warning that in the coming day, many people will post comments in which they claim to be Dr. Raj. You have been told, Dick. End of communication. Fry out. Heavens!’

Could any sensible man ignore such a warning? I couldn’t work after news like that. What is the world coming to when people are hiding behind a psychiatrist in order to play some foolish charade? This, in my opinion, is the biggest problem with the Internet. Given that there are no rules or mechanisms in play to verify a person’s your identity, we have all kind of lunatics running around under pseudonyms like ‘ElephantBoy’ or ‘GrimReaper’. Even now, there are at least six ‘Richard Madeley’s on Facebook and only one of them is me. Then there’s ‘The Twitch’, ‘Elberry’, ‘Lola’, ‘Bertas’, ‘Nige’, ‘Okbye’: all of you are pseudonyms and don’t really exist. The only ones out there with real knees I could touch are ‘Richard Havers’ and ‘Selena Dreamy’. I’m liable to do something about this in the near future and might use my remaining shows on Channel 4 to demand that the government moves to outlaw this kind of behaviour.

These were all the thoughts going through my mind after Stephen’s phone call yesterday afternoon. After I had calmed myself down with a stiff drink, I returned to my desk armed for an onslaught and closed my autobiography for another day, the milestone still not reached. Literature would suffer because of these fools. Literature would suffer...

Fresh Goat?

Another summer solstice is behind us and Judy’s best linen is back in the cupboard with only minor chutney damage. As we all stood around in the back garden two evenings ago, wrapped in our ceremonial robes and declaring our love for the Moon and Sun Goddesses, I felt completely at ease with the world. Life is often trying and unfair to men of good looks and talent. Some of us are unfairly singled out for abuse. Yet it’s reassuring to know that Mother Sun is always there to ensure we’re tanned to at least a Madeley Factor of 4. I suppose that’s why those of us in the druid faith are always happy in each other’s company. There’s really no mood better than that of a group of celebrities when there’s a goat to offer up on the high altar of light entertainment.

Which is why it struck me as odd that Stephen Fry looked so intense as he walked around the garden waving a large wooden baton.

‘Ah,’ said Stephen, ‘’tis I, Fry, with my ceremonial fertility cane, hewn from the finest Brazilian hardwood and guaranteed to deliver fecundity to all who fall under it.’

‘You mean it’s a stick of procreation?’

‘You might say that,’ said he, directing randomly towards David Dickinson.

‘I really wish you wouldn’t do that,’ I said, jumping in the way of the stick. ‘There are lots of people here but the last one I’d like to see frisky is Dickinson.’

‘I do not choose,’ said Stephen. ‘’Tis the stick that chooses whose loins will be blessed this summer eve.’

And with that he was off, this time to worry the already pregnant Billy Piper with his cane.

I left Stephen to his shamanism and slipped over to the buffet table where Sir Clive James was struggling to get some of Judy’s homemade chutney off his ceremonial gown.

‘I’m a mess,’ wheezed the Great One. ‘I’ll never be able to look a vestal virgin in the face. I have chutney where chutney should never tread.’

I gave him a slap on the back. ‘Cheer up, Clive. It’s not every year that you get to be the one to deliver the final blow to our ceremonial goat.’

‘But the chutney,’ said Clive. ‘I can’t slaughter an animal looking like this. And what will Judy say? Goat blood might not be the only life essence to flow by the close of play.’

‘Spare me the chutney,’ I replied. ‘Just think. You’ll soon be awash with the fresh arterial spray of the best Norfolk goat that money can buy. You should look forward to that.’

‘Ah, Richard,’ said Sir Clive, looking at me over his glasses in that way that reminds you of the great intellect at work behind that magnificent brow of his. ‘You know how to cheer a fellow up. I feel moved to write you a poem, perhaps in three stanzas and with end rhymes.’

‘I can do even better than that,’ I said. ‘Go and stand near Stephen. One wave of his stick and you’ll feel positively chirpy about the world and the vestal virgins won’t stand a chance with you. Nor will the goat, if I’m honest. But there you have the Great Circle of Life. You can’t have everything.’

And that, on this Sunday morning, is the message I want to send out to all my friends in the druid community. I know you were disappointed that neither Judy nor I could be with you at Stonehenge the other day, but we promise to make up for it next year.

These things are foretold in the Book of Raj, as lifted from the Book of Stanley.

'Shabna Grithalda Vertiga Madeley Vespa.'

The Vanity of Human Psychiatrists

“And Swift expires a driveller and a show”

Vanity is such a modern drug that it should really come in a foil wrap. So many of us are under that charming, wonderful, warming narcosis which makes us feel so loved for our gifts and talent. This really is such a new wonder drug that makes us feel so special, it’s sometimes a shock to learn that there are others out there who go hungry or struggle with their insignificance. Haven’t they had their tabs this month? Doesn’t ego come on the National Health?

Yet I suppose it is hardly surprising that we choose to be doped up on our sense of self. It is hard to survive otherwise, when our culture is so unendingly rotten. Riven by petty feuds, blatant falsehoods and aggravated narcissism, London is a den of arrogance, ambition, and arseholes. We need that occasional boost to pep us up. Vanity keeps us strong. And occasionally it forces us to make mistakes.

This whole affair of poor Dr. Raj just saddens me terribly. A brilliant mind is now being ridiculed by the lowest among us. Yet those grub-eating satirists with their endless witticisms are just as prone to vanity. Their lives will contain as many (if not more) misjudgements as even the most litigious person will find in Dr. Raj’s misunderstood career. It’s the intellectual conceit suffered by all of us who aspire for success that we will occasionally choose the difficult path. Ridicule is the price suffered by anybody who has tried to rise too quickly, only to reveal that very human characteristic: an astonishing capacity to make a complete balls of things.

Judy made the point this morning when we came to discuss one of my greatest shames.

‘Judy,’ I said at a particularly sensitive moment over my cornflakes, ‘it sometimes disappoints me enormously that I can’t drive a car.’

My confession clearly startled her. She knows how rarely I like to make this little fact public. When you look back through my blog, you’d see the numerous instances when I mention having driven us somewhere. Only, I was telling the smallest untruth. I employ a man to do all the driving for me. He’s an ex-grand National jockey who lives in the back of the Range Rover and doesn’t complain when I force him over the back seat and I climb out the driver’s door.

‘Perhaps you should do something to change that,’ Judy replied as I’d finished sobbing.

‘And become a figure of fun like Dr. Raj?’ I asked.

‘I know what you mean, the poor man... Harassed by scientologists for plagiarism. It’s like being shopped for theft by Ronnie Biggs.’

‘Not just scientologists,’ I said, ‘but damn ungrateful bloggers who don’t remember how he eased the suffering of so many people. But is that what we’ve come to, Judy? Does a trained healer mean so much less to us than the men and women that drive petrol tankers? Why do we mock and humiliate our artists, yet are willing to pay for our cars in blood? Why am I, a man of so many skills, unable to perform the most basic necessities of modern life that I’m made to feel like an outcast?’

‘Perhaps you need to think about a new career,’ said Judy. She’s always wanting go solo so I was hardly surprised by her suggestion. ‘Phil across the road says that most jobs come with a company car these days.’

‘And what does Phil across the road do for a living?’ I asked.

‘He’s a photocopier engineer.’

A photocopier engineer. Judy wants me to become a photocopier engineer so I might learn to drive and we can put an ex-Grand National jockey out of his chauffeuring job.

What does this say about the world? The same world that is currently mocking Dr. Raj Persaud, even though there doesn’t walk a kinder, more generous man on the face of this rotten borough of Earth.

I feel quite pensive today, as though a great wrong has been done. Damn all, who mock him. And damn all photocopier engineers too. May they all rot in a world low on toner and heavy on paper jams.

From Richard...

In case you’ve not noticed, it is now Christmas Day and it has fallen to me to be the first person of significance to wish you a very merry Christmas. I’d be very grateful if you would also do me the honour of also accepting my salutations for the New Year. So grateful, in fact, that I won’t even mention Global Warming, Iran’s uranium enrichment program, the mounting crisis in the world banks, and the fact that Lily Allen has begun to reproduce. Although each so frightening as to turn an Oddie grey, they are stories for 2008 and we do well to now worry about them now. No, really, we shouldn’t…

Instead, let me be my usual understated self by saying that there is a significant lack of words in the English language to describe the love I feel for you regular readers. The ‘occasionals’ I like too but, let’s face facts here: it’s the regular readers (even those of you who don't think I know you're even watching) who butter my Christmas muffins. If I could, I would have you all pickled and popped in jam jars for my mantelpiece, where your little wrinkled cadavers could be studied during the remaining dark days of winter before I bury you in the fertile loam of my back garden sometime in the spring. With the right nutrients and careful watering, I’d raise many more of you, multiplying my readership with a fruitful harvest in the Autumn. This time next year, we’d have an army and who knows what good we could do!

Enough about the distant future. My day is going to be a busy one. We’re holding a small party here at our home for just a few hundred celebrity friends. Homes across London will be empty between the hours of 8PM and 3AM, while their owners are here enjoying a feast the likes of which have not been seen since the days of the toga. If you’re driving in the area tonight, please take care of celebrities running out into the road. We don’t want any accidents like we had on Judy’s birthday, when Billie Piper was impaled on a juggernaut’s radiator grill and carried all the way to Bradford.

I’ll be back tomorrow, when my hangover has lifted, to cast an eye over the destruction. My advice to you all is not to drink or to drive, and to avoid putting the moves on a Nolan, an Izzard, or a Clarkson. As for a Madeley… Well, let’s never say never, shall we?

Merry Christmas.

A Measured Response to Prune Juice

The advantage of having my own weekday show on Channel 4 is that I can put it to good use. I can help people find organ donors, promote a cause, or help expand literacy in the nation’s school. I can also use it to destroy a man. I only mention this in passing. Make of it what you will, Chip Dale.

I also mention in passing that I’ve always hated prunes. I don’t know how Dale knew this as it wasn’t even in my authorised biography but I want him to bring a halt to this prune juice offensive of his. Let’s not put prune juice in the wrong hands. There’s no room in blogging for these terrible weapons of mass disruption. This morning I sent him a message, warning him to bring hostilities to an end by 6pm tonight. So far, I’ve had no response* and I’m taking measures to launch waves of ‘taffy pulling’ on his blog.

On tonight’s show we’ll be doing a feature on people who look ten years older than their real age and we’ll have make up artist Sue Potter in the studio making Flora Smythe, who looks about 93, look more like her real age of 83. It promises to be an exciting show as Professor Raj Persaud (he’s a professor now?) takes Peter Hitchens through some moves in our continuing feature on celebrity Greek wrestling.

Some prune facts which everyone should know before they start spreading the juice around. Did you know that in some parts of South America the stones from prunes are placed in the ears to enhance the effects of cannabis? Prunes are also high in vitamin D and can help you tan more easily. The downside of this is you’ll spend more time on the toilet and, all things being equal, the prune / sunbathing ratio cancels each other out. You might even look paler, though not down the backs of your legs. Prunes are a natural laxative and are good for the digestion, unless you swallow the stones which contain toxins which produce a effect similar to LSD, including a strange psychosis in which you believe your stools are singing light Italian opera.

* 4PM UPDATE: Dale's now given up, citing humanitarian grounds and the peace-making skills of Graf von Straf Hindenburg. I think we all know he was worried that Judy would mock his manhood on tonight's show. The first Prunic War has come to an end with a victory for Madeley and the forces of good. Now let the church bells ring.

Swearing Mothers, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys

I trust you’re all well this fine Monday morning. I spent my weekend at a country music convention up in Aylesbury and had a marvellous time hoedowning and yee-hawing to the best of Dolly Parton, Freddy Fender, and Conway Twitty. The only disappointment was to get back late last night to discover that I’d offended the Swearing Mother by not initially including her in my thoughtful blogger post. I’ve begged her forgiveness but it doesn’t appear to be enough. So, in the spirit of harmony, I’ve penned a country ballad about this sad story, which also includes a touching little scene about Mopsa’s dog just to make it more poignant. I’ll be singing it on the show tonight, wearing my white silk cowboy shirt and stetson as Judy accompanies me on the guitar and Dr. Raj plays the bull fiddle. If this doesn’t appease Swearing Mother, I think I’ll have to bring out the big guns and take the matter to Denise Robertson.

Today’s country & western facts: Kenny Rogers made much of his fortune by owning the world’s largest rhinestone mine in Kentucky. Ducks have been taught to line dance by no less a figure than Willie Nelson, who happened to be stoned at the time. He is also the only person to have two characters in The Simpsons based on him (Groundskeeper Willie and Nelson Muntz). Dolly Parton invented Tizer but sold the rights to the Coca Cola corporation and used the money to build Dollyland.

Saved By Dr. Raj

It was a parasite. Judy spotted it as I was grinding my beans this morning. It was lodged behind my left ear. It explains all the self-doubt I’ve been having. It explains the paranoia, the self-loathing, the feelings of guilt.

Half-an-hour ago, Dr. Raj landed his helicopter in the back garden and came rushing into the house, his medical bag clutched in his hands and a steely look of determination on his face. Ten minutes later, he was operating.

‘This,’ he said, holding the bug up between his tweezers, ‘this is a Jamaican seraphalonic ear mite. A nasty critter that burrows into the skull and injects its toxic serum directly into the brain, causing the host to doubt his own sanity and wonder who he is.’

At this point Judy fainted.

‘The thing is,’ said Dr. Raj, who knows Judy well enough to barely bat an eyelid, ‘you have to remember who you are and begin to live your life as though the last few days never happened.’

‘A Jamaican seraphalonic ear mite?’ I pondered. ‘You know, I bet I caught that from that batch of Jamaican ginger cake Judy’s aunt Polly sent over the other week. I remember sticking a piece of it behind my ear while I held the ladder while Judy climbed on roof to fix the shingles.’

He slapped me across the face. ‘Tell me who you are.’

‘I’m Richard,’ I said.

He slapped me again. ‘Richard?’

‘Richard Madeley!’

‘You’re not an imposter then?’

‘Hardly. Could an imposter do this?’ I asked and proceeded to grab my big toe between my teeth and expose my groin as I do often do for the world to see at five o’clock every weekday on Channel 4.

‘Well, that’s it,’ said Raj with a salute and a wink. ‘Another case closed. Have to dash, I’m spending the afternoon helping Jordan overcome low self-esteem.’

‘Might that be another case of a Jamaican seraphalonic ear mite?’ I asked.

Raj looked at me. ‘Stick at what you’re good at Richard,’ he said as he swept a curl of hair from his brow. ‘Leave the diagnosis for those of us trained to diagnose.’

So, that explains everything. This Jamaican seraphalonic ear mite explains why I’ve had the feeling that people are talking about me. It explains why I’ve been not feeling myself.

And in honour of my recently departed parasite, I thought I’d give you some other famous cases of insect infestations. Such as the worm that taught Les Denis everything he knows about comedy. You didn’t know that? The year was 1978 and Les was an unknown working in men’s nightclubs across the north. He wasn’t particularly funny and thought he’d reached a career high supporting the new comedy star, Jimmy Cricket. A holiday in the Zambia and he came back a different man and the comedy god we know and love today. And all because of the zootzoot worm which had made a home in Les’ right ankle.

Did you know that Bo Derek’s much heralded beauty can be attributed to an allergic reaction to a ladybird? Or that Robbie Coltrain plays host to a colony of termites? More facts tomorrow.

And please: remember to check yourself for Jamaican seraphalonic ear mites.

The Upside of Death

I seem to have put my foot in it again.

I don’t know if you caught last night’s show but I happened to let slip that all the bathrooms are ‘lock free’ in the Madeley household. I didn’t think it was that big a thing when this factoid slipped out. We have no secrets in our house and many a time I’ve been caught steeping out of the shower with my… well, let’s just say 'with little Richard hanging out with his friends, little Fred and slightly bigger Raj'. I’m not ashamed that you all know this. It's just one of those small inconveniences I’m more than happy to live with, so long as Judy has peace of mind.

Only don't get me wrong. Judy's not one of the millions who suffer from coprophobia or anything like that. No, Judy just doesn't like confined spaces. It's something about being trapped in a small room with sanitary products. And who can blame her? My heart quickens apace whenever I'm in close proximity to a toilet duck.

TNo, the way I see it, having no locks on our bathroom doors makes it a win win situation for Judy. It makes her feel safe in her own home while also maximising the chances that she’s going to catch a certain handsome co-presenter naked in the shower or sat bare arsed reading the latest issue of Nuts magazine. Yet despite these benefits, Judy's fear did get me thinking. Is it really the fear of confinement that worries Judy? Or, as any good psychologist (or even Dr Raj Persaud) will tell you, is it the fear of death?

I reached this level of enlightenment yesterday afternoon when she told me in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t allow a certain man of infinite foregiveness become a Richard & Judy bookclub author unless he cheers up and write about something more uplifting than death. She suggested a ‘nice upbeat book Afghan amputees learning to tap dance’ but I wasn’t so sure. It convinced me that I needed to prove something to Judy. I need to prove that there’s an upside to the afterlife.

Death can be a funny business. There’s something quite Buddhist about it. It's like we're lumps of animated clay stuck in a warehouse fire at Aardman Animations. One moment we’re Gromit’s leg leg and, the next, we’ve been reincarnated as a turtle’s sweatband in an advert for British Gas. And that’s the message I wanted to send to Judy. There are positives in death, if only you look for them.

The way I see it, death means ear wax is no longer a problem. Pretty much all problems of grooming fade away on the other side of death. You don’t even need to buy grooming products, though who can say no to Vidal Sassoon latest range of anti-worm products to help protect your skin through the afterlife?

'Death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful'. John Donne might also have added helpful and timely. What greater excuse could you have for escaping a birthday bash held for your distant cousin JWH Madeley. In fact, mortality brings with it its own rewards: it’s an excuse for tardiness, a reason to lie in past noon, and you no longer feel bad about the planet. You are the planet.

You can be rude to whoever you like when you’re dead. And, let’s face it: you’re going to be rude to just about everybody. You don’t write, you never call. You don’t even answer when somebody asks you a question. In a way, it’s like becoming a Jehovah’s Witness but without the legwork.

You can grow a beard when you’re dead. Actually, you won’t be able to help it. Unless you’re Russ Abbot, your hair will continue to sprout long after you’ve ceased to be. This explains the prolonged career of Jimmy Savile and his current appearance. He’s been dead since 1983.

Death has a small carbon footprint so Al Gore won't complain. Unless, of course, you're cremated. In which case, take it from me: you're much better off being asked to be buried in a grow bag with a tomato seed stuck up your ass.

Death makes you down with the kids. How much more hip can you be with a white face and long solemn silences? If that's not Goth, what is?

As soon as I’m made this little list, I decided to present it to Judy. That's another advantage of having no locks on the bathroom doors. We can tell people good news as soon as we have it. Only, I think she wasn’t that interested. I’ve now backed out of the bathroom and I’m waiting until she’d finished. In the meantime, how about some morbid factoids to cheer us up?

Did you know that Suggs from Madness collects funeral director’s top hats? Or that Ealing has the highest mortality rate among mimes than the rest of the country? And did you know that when a mime dies, they're buried in a glass coffin?

Did you know that more people die exercising in a gym than eating doughnuts in a cafe? That waxed moustaches can prolong a man’s life by up to five years? It’s a scientific fact.

And did you know that to the Japanese, the colour white represents death and this is why there are no professional Japanese tennis players?